Homecoming
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Where did Cole go, after Phoebe let him go free? Set between 'Sleuthing...' and 'Bride...'


Disclaimer: this story based on the Spelling Television/WB Television Network series 'Charmed'. All characters belong to their original owners. The story is meant for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement was intended.  
  
  
HOMECOMING  
  
"You have to go. Please!"  
  
He couldn't leave. Not yet. A last farewell kiss, and the touch of her lips faded as he shimmered. Phoebe's sisters came clattering down the stairs; he should not have taken an instant longer. They pulled up when they saw the dying fire on the floor. Cole hovered on the edge of their realm, a fraction away from being visible.   
  
"You did what you had to do." Prue walked over to her baby sister and Phoebe allowed her to pull her in for a hug. Cole's palm stung where she had nicked him with the knife, yet he smiled. It looked like her little ruse was successful. If Phoebe's sisters believed she had vanquished him, then surely so would the Source. Breathing a little easier, Cole left.  
  
He shimmered again and again, and moved from realm to realm to realm in an effort to stay hidden. He never remained anywhere longer than mere heartbeats. Until at last, exhausted, he could no longer continue. Shimmering took much more effort than usual; Belthazor still suffered from the knife cut. Leo had only healed his human half, not his demonic one. At least, Cole thought, it kept that part of him quiet.  
  
He had come to Paris, in the human world. This reality was where he would be safest, where he could blend in the easiest.  
  
He looked around and saw that he had landed onto the banks of the river Seine, below one of the many bridges. It was dark, with only a few stars glimmering overhead. In the distance he could make out the lights of the Eiffel Tower. He rubbed his arms; it was cold. The newly healed scar itched and deep inside Belthazor stirred.  
  
He needed time. Time to rest, to recharge, and to think. These last few days, events had followed one another so fast that it was hard to understand what exactly had happened. The one thing he remembered most clearly was Phoebe. Her tears, the pain in her eyes, the accusations. "Was it all a twisted, demonic thrill?" Cole cringed at the memory of those words. How he had hurt her! With his lies, his deception. Yet, despite his betrayal, she had been capable of a last act of mercy, when she vanquished his shirt and set him free.  
  
While his mind kept replaying the events in the tomb again and again, Cole made his way deeper into the shadows of the bridge. He was careful to step over the crumpled forms that were lying about haphazardly. The smell of unwashed humans and cheap booze was heavy in the air. Clochards. The rejects of French society. Nobody would look for him here and he supposed it was a fitting place to spend the night. He was a fugitive, an outcast himself.  
  
He found an empty spot near one of the concrete pillars and slid down onto the ground. He rested his back against the cold stone, drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them in an attempt to stay warm. The first thing he should to do tomorrow was find something warmer to wear. Of course, if he had been thinking straight, he would have shimmered to a more agreeable location. Right now, however, Cole didn't think he had the energy for even one more trip.  
  
He rested his head onto his knees and with Phoebe's beautiful face before his mind's eye, he fell asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
Shouts and curses woke him. Cole blinked. He was stiff and cold, and where the hell was he? In the gray light of an early winter morning, two or three men, dark shapes really, pushed and shoved each other. Demons? Cole jumped to his feet. Instinct took over and before he had time to think, an energy ball flared up. It hovered over his hand. Belthazor struggled for control and it took all of Cole's willpower to keep the demon suppressed.  
  
The appearance of the energy ball was enough to end the scuffle. The cursing stopped and the voices fell silent. Both the combatants and spectators stared at Cole. They gawked at the light above his hand. And the people of the street knew him for what he was.  
  
"Lui!" A woman with the ruddy cheeks and nose that spoke of an longtime relationship with the wine bottle, pointed a dirty finger at him. Cole raised his hand, ready to defend himself and fling the energy bolt. "Il est un diable! Un démon!"   
  
"Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs. . ." Several clochards picked up the prayer. They backed away and held their hands high to ward off the danger. As soon as they cleared the bridge, they turned and lumbered away as fast as they could.  
  
Cole let the power ball wink out. He had been about to kill an innocent! He shuddered at the thought; Phoebe would not have been pleased.   
  
Using his powers had given him away. These outcasts were much more acceptable of strange occurrences than most humans. The street-people were mortals but they often saw things that most men would never chance upon. He had to get clear of Paris. If any Zotars were in the area, they might have sensed him reaching for the energy.  
  
He shimmered and left France far behind. So, this was how his life was going to be. Always on the run, always looking over his shoulder, always on edge. Was it worth it? Perhaps Phoebe should have vanquished him; at least it would have been quick and merciful. And there was no shame in dying at the hands of the Charmed Ones.  
  
At random, he flashed through several realms. With luck, it would throw any pursuers off his trail. When the many quick transitions were starting to make him nauseous, he stopped and looked around  
  
He was standing near the entrance to a dark alleyway, within a few yards from a busy street. He stepped out onto the pavement. Neon lights flickered and the crowd surged around him: small, dark-haired people who strode by with brisk steps. "Tokyo," he muttered. No, this wouldn't do. He towered high over the swarm and stuck out like a sore thumb. A blind man could see he didn't belong here.   
  
He shimmered again. "Careless, Turner," he told himself. He had to pay more attention to where he was going or he wouldn't last till the end of the day.   
  
He ticked off the requirements for his next destination. One: he had to be able to blend in. Two: he needed money. Thus he needed access to some of the funds he had accumulated and hidden over the years. Three: it had to be a large town. Although cities were the demons' favorite playgrounds, he would be able to submerge in the multitudes of humans. He'd stand out more in the countryside.   
  
He ran down the possibilities in his head. London? Too obvious. New York? No, that place was crawling with demons. Berlin? Maybe. . .  
  
He smacked his right fist into his open left hand. Of course! Amsterdam! He recalled a vague memory: he had left a pouch of uncut diamonds in a bank vault in the early 1940s, at the time of the Nazi occupation of Europe. If he returned to those days and recovered the diamonds before the Nazis confiscated the bank's assets, he could sell them. Being on the run sucked. Being on the run while broke was a real bitch.  
  
* * *  
  
He spent several weeks in Amsterdam. It was 1942, the middle of World War Two. It wasn't a happy time, but it suited Cole: razzias happened every day and people were scared. They avoided each other's eyes in the streets and they certainly didn't ask questions of this tall, forbidding man. On the second night he shimmered into the bank vault to get the diamonds. He had left them there a week ago, yet in another lifetime. On the third night he sold three of the stones to a shady black market dealer for a bad price. The man was a crook, surely, but Cole was certain he wasn't a demon. And he needed money.  
  
During the days he wandered along the canals and the small streets, without aim or purpose. At night he slept in alleys, on a bench in the Vondel Park, or among the fugitives in the hallways of the railway station. He was careful never to sleep in the same location twice. He kept moving around.  
  
Then, one day, he saw him. Vornac. Dressed in a stern, black uniform. Double lightning bolts glimmered on his collar as he walked down the steps of one of the stately brick houses that lined the canals. Cole jumped back into the alley. He didn't think Vornac had seen him. Yet, it had been a frighteningly close call. Far too close. If Vornac had left the building a couple of seconds later. . . If Cole had walked a little faster. . .  
  
What the hell was Vornac doing here? Reliving old glory? Or laying the groundwork for a future scheme? Wars, times of turmoil, were rife with opportunities for a smart demon and the effects of the Second World War would ripple far into the 21st century. Where was the rest of the brotherhood? Were they here also? They were brothers of a sort and Vornac or any of the other members would recognize him instantly. Cole gave a shiver at the thought and watched Vornac climb into a black car. As soon as the vehicle had disappeared from view, Cole shimmered. He was on the run again.  
  
* * *  
  
Again he skimmed across plane after plane, realm after realm, with no clear direction or plan. At last, depleted, he stopped. Even before he focused on his new surroundings, Cole knew that he had arrived in Phoebe's world. He knew her essence so well; he could always sense her. She was like a light that hovered at the edge of perception. When you turned and tried to take a good look at it, it was gone. Yet, it was always there.  
  
He looked around and recognized the row of fins across the water. The Sydney Opera. Instinctively he had shimmered himself to a location that was half a world away from Phoebe. It was as close as he dared go.   
  
Cole found a spot on a wood bench and sat down to stare across the harbor at the Opera. What to do next?  
  
The weather was warm; it was summer in this part of the world. The sun beat down from a clear, blue sky that only a few fluffy clouds blemished with their presence. Cole took off the jacket he had bought in Amsterdam and rolled up his shirtsleeves. In the jacket's pocket, the remaining diamonds rattled in their small pouch. He could sell those anywhere, anytime, which was why he had gone to recollect them in the first place. Diamonds kept their value throughout history, unlike human currencies and paper money. At least he wouldn't starve, for a while. Or worse, be forced to use his powers to find food and shelter.  
  
He never wanted to use his demonic powers again. Phoebe had helped him escape because she believed in him. He didn't want to betray her trust by reverting to his old ways. She had taught him how to be good. He was going to do his damnedest to *stay* good.  
  
Yet, what was he supposed to do? Where could he go? Freedom was empty without love. He was alive, but utterly alone. Cole had had a taste of what his life could be like. He had glimpsed an end to the immense loneliness that plagued him since the death of his father. A loneliness that no demonic companion, no Brotherhood, could alleviate. And right when it had all been within his grasp, it had been snatched away cruelly.  
  
"Excuse me, young man." A quivering voice startled him from his reverie. Cole looked up to meet the rheumy gaze of an old woman. Thin, gray wisps framed a wrinkled face and she leaned heavily on a walking stick.  
  
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," Cole murmured and grabbed the jacket to make room for the old lady.   
  
She lowered herself with caution and leaned against the backrest. She heaved a deep sigh. "My husband used to come here every afternoon," she said. "For the last thirty years. Sometimes I came with him. We watched them built that, the Opera, over there." She gave a nod across the bay. "Then, last month, he didn't come home. I was so worried. Sometimes people get mugged here, you know. And an old man like George. . ." She turned her eyes on Cole. "They found him sitting right there where you're sitting now. The doctors said he died of a stroke. They say he didn't suffer." A single tear trickled down her cheek, winding a path between the wrinkles in her skin.  
  
"I. . . I'm sorry," Cole heard himself say and with a start found that he meant it.  
  
"Oh, don't be." She smiled sadly and placed a gnarled hand on his forearm. "We were married for almost fifty years. We had a long and happy life together. We had our problems, but we always made it through. And it won't be long before I'll see my George again." It was said with the certainty of indestructible faith.  
  
Cole mulled over her story. What would it be like to love someone for so long, for five decades? To share the good, and the bad?  
  
The Source would send others against the Charmed Ones. Phoebe would continue to be in danger; she would have to fight every day of her life against the evil creatures that wanted to kill her and her sisters. And he, Cole, would be running from the same evil forces. Forever. Until they caught him. It was no way to live. Without Phoebe, his life meant nothing.  
  
What was he still doing here? He had to go back, to try and mend things with Phoebe! When she had let him go, she had set him free in more ways than one. He was free to make his own choices, for good or evil. She had given him his humanity. She had taught him about compassion. It was up to him to win back her heart.  
  
"I have to go," Cole said to the elderly lady. He was eager to return to San Francisco. He lifted her hand, so frail, from his arm and gently placed it in her lap. "Thank you."  
  
He walked away, not sure if she was watching him. He didn't really care. He managed to take several steps before impatience got the best of him and he shimmered.  
  
* * *  
  
He appeared beside his father's tomb. The granite floor was blackened where Phoebe had burned his shirt. The knife was gone.  
  
Cole couldn't wait to go to her, to tell her that he was back, to ask for a second chance. Yet, he needed to be cautious. Nobody except Phoebe knew that he was still alive. If he showed up at the manor unannounced, chances were that her sisters would vanquish him on sight. Not that he blamed them; however, it would be a stupid way to go. No, it was better to be safe than sorry. He slumped behind the sarcophagus. How could he get in touch with Phoebe? It was time to draw up a battle plan.  
  
--END--  
  
  
  



End file.
